The Wandering Jew — Volume 07 eBook

“They have said that quarrymen are brutes, only
fit to torn wheels in a shaft, like dogs to turn spits,”
cried an emissary of Baron Tripeaud’s.

“And that the Devourers would make themselves
caps with wolf-skin,” added another.

“Neither they nor their wives ever go to mass.
They are pagans and dogs!” cried an emissary
of the preaching abbe.

“The men might keep their Sunday as they pleased;
but their wives not to go to mass!—­it is
abominable.

“And, therefore, the curate has said that their
factory, because of its abominations, might bring
down the cholera to the country.”

“True? he said that in his sermon.”

“Our wives heard it.”

“Yes, yes; down with the Devourers, who want
to bring the cholera on the country!”

“Hooray, for a fight!” cried the crowd
in chorus.

“To the factory, my brave Wolves!” cried
Morok, with the voice of a Stentor; “on to the
factory!”

“Yes! to the factory! to the factory!”
repeated the crowd, with furious stamping; for, little
by little, all who could force their way into the
room, or up the stairs, had there collected together.

These furious cries recalling Jacques for a moment
to his senses, he whispered to Morok: “It
is slaughter you would provoke? I wash my hands
of it.”

“We shall have time to let them know at the
factory. We can give these fellows the slip on
the road,” answered Morok. Then he cried
aloud, addressing the host, who was terrified at this
disorder: “Brandy!—­let us drink
to the health of the brave Wolves! I will stand
treat.” He threw some money to the host,
who disappeared, and soon returned with several bottles
of brandy, and some glasses.

“What! glasses?” cried Morok. “Do
jolly companions, like we are, drink out of glasses?”
So saying, he forced out one of the corks, raised the
neck of the bottle to his lips, and, having drunk a
deep draught, passed it to the gigantic quarryman.

“That’s the thing!” said the latter.
“Here’s in honor of the treat!—­None
but a sneak will refuse, for this stuff will sharpen
the Wolves’ teeth!”

“Here’s to your health, mates!”
said Morok, distributing the bottles.

“There will be blood at the end of all this,”
muttered Sleepinbuff, who, in spite of his intoxication,
perceived all the danger of these fatal incitements.
Indeed, a large portion of the crowd was already quitting
the yard of the public-house, and advancing rapidly
towards M. Hardy’s factory.

Those of the workmen and inhabitants of the village,
who had not chosen to take any part in this movement
of hostility (they were the majority), did not make
their appearance, as this threatening troop passed
along the principal street; but a good number of women,
excited to fanaticism by the sermons of the abbe,
encouraged the warlike assemblage with their cries.
At the head of the troop advanced the gigantic blaster,